


Bells of Hasetsu

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, Minor Angst, Minor Injuries, Mutual Pining, mild supernatural elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 03:53:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11592390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Of courseVictor wants the first run-through of their pair skate to be a public spectacle, and there's still a whole summer before the Grand Prix Series even starts. But summers in Hasetsu don't just bring the heat; they also bring theOther,and this year it has set its sights on Victor.





	Bells of Hasetsu

**Author's Note:**

> This was created in collaboration with the lovely [Saph0](http://saph0.tumblr.com//) for the Reverse Victuuri Big Bang. Check them out; their art is amazing!

_ Saturday _

 

“You’re not really going to print posters for this, are you?”

Victor’s sitting cross-legged at the dining table, his lunch half forgotten in favor of his laptop. Or rather, what’s  _ on _ his laptop: something that looks suspiciously like the poster they had made for the Onsen on Ice event back in April, except this one only features Yuuri and Victor himself and a whole lot of cherry blossoms to hide the fact that it's really two separate photos that have been edited together.

“Why not?” says Victor and turns the laptop so that Yuuri can see better. “It’s good publicity.”

“Victor!” Yuuri can feel his cheeks heat up. It’s a very... suggestive photo of himself, from last year’s short program: his head thrown back dramatically, back arched, one arm reaching out to an unknown someone. Or in this case to Victor, who’s looking back at Yuuri with the same kind of longing expression. Except that on him it actually looks good, ethereal. On Yuuri it looks constipated.

“You don’t like it?” asks Victor, and his smile dies down minutely, like he suddenly isn’t sure about... something. Probably that stupid poster.

And it’s not like Yuuri doesn’t like it, because he does. He  _ does _ . It makes his stomach all warm and tingly because oh, the way Victor’s looking at him on that poster...  _ But it’s not really you, is it? It’s just a very fortunate photo edit. _ “I think, I mean, it... it might send the wrong kind of message?” he says out loud.

“What,” says Victor and leans across the table into Yuuri’s space, tilting Yuuri’s chin up with a single finger. Strands of silver hair fall over his eye, an eye that sparkles with hidden mischief, a quiet smirk that’s reflected in the twitch of his lips that Yuuri has to force himself to look away from. “Too suggestive?”

Yuuri swallows so audibly, so on cue that Mari, his parents,  _ everyone _ in the inn must hear it, surely, even above the buzz of the fan, above the sounds of the TV in the other room, above the laughter and chatter and footsteps that occasionally waft over. The August air is suddenly too thick, too hot, the fan suddenly ineffective. As if a wave of heat has rolled over him, into him, right into his gut and his cheeks. The wide-open doors surely don’t help, letting sunlight spill in like a destructive river.

When Yuuri doesn’t answer Victor pulls back, cocking his head. “Yuuri, if you’re uncomfortable with it I can have another one made. It’s not a big deal.”

“No no no no!” He brings his arms up in defense, waving them like a madman. “The poster is perfect! You don’t have to commission a new one just for me.”

“It’s really no big—” Victor starts, but then Yuuri grabs for his hand and that seems to shut him up, because Victor becomes perfectly still; not just his words, but his body and breathing as well. It’s like he’s become a statue, flush with August heat.

“The poster stays,” says Yuuri with a lot more confidence than he feels. “But...” He glances at the laptop, then back at Victor.

“But?” It’s barely audible.

“Can we keep this small? It’s only a run-through. What if the costumes don’t arrive on time? What if something happens? We’ve only been practicing this for three weeks, Victor.”

“Okay.” Victor smiles, his fingers twitching in Yuuri’s grasp, but he doesn’t pull away. He averts his eyes though, first to the poster and then across the room, to where Makkachin has monopolized the space right next to the fan. It’s this sort of moment where you’ve backed yourself into a corner, you’re at a standstill; the awkwardness is palpable, Victor’s hand heavy in Yuuri’s.

The moment breaks when a bell rings somewhere in the garden, once and then again, and a cat appears from behind a tree like a ghostly shadow. Its paws make no sound on the wood, but the bell peals clear as it jumps onto the porch.

“Umm.” Yuuri lets go of Victor’s hand, which hangs suspended in the air like from an invisible string before Victor pulls it back and lays it, perhaps a little too deliberately, on the table. On the other side of the room Makkachin rouses, eyes droopy from sleep, and lets out a deep growl that has the cat stop in its tracks. Its sharp blue eyes fix her with a stare that says,  _ You will not catch me. _

Victor stands, sighing like Makkachin’s dislike of cats is old news, and makes his way over to her. His hair moves in the wind as he gets closer to the fan and plops himself down next to his dog, who yawns and stretches and growls again when she spots the still-immobile cat.

“Makkachin!” warns Victor, and his fingers curl into her fur. “Be nice, Makkachin.” Makkachin huffs but lies back down, propping her head on Victor’s thigh. Yuuri smiles to himself with a sting in his heart, remembering: Vicchan used to do that too, or he would jump into Yuuri’s lap and hide there like in a nest. Makkachin is too big for that, but that doesn’t stop her from trying, occasionally.

“It kind of looks like you,” says Yuuri.

“What does?”

“The cat.” He gestures toward the door, to where the cat used to be. Yuuri didn’t see it leave, but it must have bolted quite fast after its initial shock.

Victor just cocks his head to the side and scratches Makkachin behind the ears. “What cat?” he asks.

 

* * *

 

_ _

 

_ Sunday _

 

Sometimes Yuuri forgets that his coach is  _ Victor Nikiforov _ . Today, as they’re strolling down the beach at a snail’s pace, occasionally throwing sticks for Makkachin to chase after, he’s just Victor. Victor, the guy who happens to be living at Yu-Topia like he’s part of the family, who drinks too much at parties and occasionally until dawn and  _ still _ shows up at practice, who takes his dog to the vet just to get her nails clipped. Victor the man keeps pushing Victor the legend into the background, and whenever Yuuri remembers the latter he’s in awe at just how much more the first has come to mean to him.

Off in the distance, Makkachin has taken to chasing seagulls again, yipping every so often when the water touches her paws. Her stick lies forgotten a couple feet ahead, again, half buried in the ground. It’s all damp when Yuuri picks it up and rubs off the sand. “Makkachin!” he calls, and she stops in her movements and turns her head towards them, cocking it to the side before her attention is caught by another seagull. Yuuri shakes his head, chuckling. Vicchan always came when he was called; it takes Yuuri three more tries to get Makkachin to listen, and when she comes tongue out and tail wagging he gives he a pat on the head and waves the stick in front of her face. She jumps, barking, in an attempt to snatch it from him, but Yuuri is faster; he throws it, as high and as far as he possibly can, and Makkachin chases after.

“She used to be a lot more focused when she was younger.” Victor looks off into the distance, where Makkachin has abandoned her stick in favor of her pursuit of seagulls. The constant breeze, fresh and pregnant with the smell of ocean, plays with Victor's hair and cools Yuuri’s skin; it’s still early in the day, early enough that they can bring Makkachin without disrupting any beach goers and tourists, though the beach isn’t completely empty either. There’s a young family a couple hundred feet behind them, and the motor of a small speed boat roars through the morning hush occasionally. An old man greeted them earlier; he usually sits farther ahead on a log by the road feeding the birds, but today he’d taken to limping along the shore with his cane and a bag of shells. “For my granddaughter,” he’d said and presented the content of his bag like a first grader would present his first drawing.

“I think she’s getting a little senile in her old age.” Victor taps his finger against his chin, watching Makkachin as she runs up and down the beach. There’s something wistful in his expression, something delicately private that Yuuri isn’t sure he’s supposed to see.

“Maybe,” offers Yuuri, “she’s more stubborn than senile.”

Victor chuckles, then stops and steps out of his shoes. There’s this thing in his eyes—like they’re clouded over, but if Yuuri looks closely he can see the whole ocean reflected in them.  _ Fondness _ , he realizes,  _ but also fear _ . Yuuri can understand that: Makkachin is fast reaching the limit of her life expectancy.

“When she was a puppy,” says Victor after a while, “I would bring her to the rink with me. She would bark to the music until Yakov got fed up and made me take her home. And then I’d bring her again the next day.”

Yuuri tries not to grin, but his lips curve up anyway; this sounds exactly like something Victor would do. It’s the sort of endearing that only lasts as long as you’re not directly involved.  _ Poor Yakov, _ he thinks. Teenage Victor must have been a handful.

“Dance with me?” Victor offers Yuuri his hand, suddenly all ballroom and Mr Darcy, with the smile of a gentleman who’s patiently courting his beloved. Yuuri wants to believe it, but Victor is... well, Victor. Touchy and oh so very generous with his charms. Yuuri accepts the hand anyway (he can’t really help himself).

“Wait.” He slips his shoes off and rolls up his pants, and then  _ tugs _ Victor—where did he get that confidence?—towards the water. When they get there his toes curl into the sand and he looks back: their footprints are clear and deep and filling with seawater. What’s he supposed to do now? There’s a heat in the pit of his stomach that reaches all the way up to his face (probably very visibly so) that the offshore wind can’t quite diminish.

“Did you... want to practice the routine?” he asks because he can’t think of anything else to say. It’s a sensible thing to do, isn’t it? They have a public pair skate coming up in two weeks, and less than a month’s worth of practice. Yuuri isn’t even sure anymore who came up with the idea (Victor had said, _ Yuuri, you need to start thinking about your exhibition skate, _ and Yuuri had mumbled something about  _ Stammi Vicino, _ with lots of ‘ _ sorry’s  _ and  _ ‘maybe’s _ and ‘ _ I don’t want to steal your program’s _ scattered in between), and one thing led to another and here they are, preparing to do a pair skate to the program that, in a way, brought them together. It’s certainly one way of “skating on the same ice as my idol.” Not what Yuuri had expected, but he isn’t complaining.

Victor chuckles and raises their hands. “I suppose we could do that,” he says, and then they’re dancing barefoot through ankle deep water. It’s messy and less than perfect, certainly different off the ice, where instead of gliding their feet sink into the sand with every step they take. Victor lifts Yuuri and Yuuri lifts Victor, and the seams of his pants are soaking with water even though he rolled them up. And then Yuuri steps into a particularly loose bit of sand and stumbles, and with a yelp he’s down on the ground, they’re both down, giggling like two school girls.

Yuuri lies back and lets the lukewarm seawater wash over him; his clothes are ruined now anyway. When the water retreats he feels it dragging the sand out from under him.

Somewhere to his right, Victor snickers. “Katsuki Yuuri and Victor Nikiforov, stunning the world with a perfect pair skate!”

Yuuri looks up —and—wow. The morning sun is framing Victor’s face like a halo: loose strands of his hair seem to glow, and his eyes are bluer, somehow. There’s sand on his cheek, his shirt is wet and dirty, his skin pink and vibrant. Yuuri sits up so that they’re at eye level with each other and raises his hand to wipe the sand from Victor’s cheek, except his hands are just as dirty as the rest of him, and what the hell was he about to do just now anyway?

“Yuuri? What’s wrong?”

“Um...” Yuuri shakes his head. “You have...” He points a finger at his own cheek. Victor raises a hand to his face and, instead of wiping the sand off, smears even more of it on his skin. Yuuri can’t help the snort that escapes him.

“Well,” Victor says, “since we’re dirty anyway.”

And grabs a handful of sand and rubs it into Yuuri’s hair.

“Victor!”

Victor just laughs, a sincere and jovial sound, and has the guts to back off out of reach. Yuuri splashes water in his direction, then a clump of sand that splatters all over Victor’s shirt and his bare arms. As if on cue, Makkachin comes trotting up, yawns, and shakes herself so vigorously that dirt flies everywhere.

“You want to play too, Makkachin?” says Victor and pats her on the head. Makkachin spins twice and lies down next to him, ignorant of the sheer film of water that rises and sinks and makes her fur all wet again.

“At least she’s not chasing seagulls anymore,” Yuuri says.

Victor hums. “I’d carry her home if I had to.” It wouldn’t be the first time Makkachin falls asleep at the beach, though the last time had been a Tuesday, and morning practice just twenty minutes away; Yuuri had called Mari to pick them up. Today though they don’t have anywhere to be.

Somewhere in the distance a bell rings, and Makkachin’s ears perk up. She lifts her head and looks around, sniffing, growling.

“Makkachin,” Victor chides, and she almost stands down. But the bell rings again, and Makkachin darts off towards the road, barking.

“Shit.” Victor jumps to his feet and chases after, though he must know there’s no way he’ll catch up to her. Yuuri watches in alarm because  _ this is how Vicchan died _ . “Makkachin! Makka—”

He must have run into a patch of loose sand then, because he falls, almost comically slowly, onto the ground below. Yuuri expects him to get up again, or at least call for Makkachin, but Victor stays seated and silent.

“Oh.” Yuuri runs over, eyes darting across the beach until he finds the poodle, who came to a halt not ten feet from the road. “Makkachin!” he calls and exhales a sigh of relief when she comes padding over.

Yuuri lets himself slump down next to Victor. “Makkachin’s safe,” he says. Victor doesn’t answer. He’s—very pale, actually, staring at nothing in particular and digging his hands into the sand. Yuuri lays a hand on his shoulder. “Are... you okay?”

Victor looks up at him with glassy eyes. “I don’t think so.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, something—something jumped in the way and I tried to evade, but...” He takes a shaky breath. “I felt something snap.”

“I...” Yuuri has no idea how to handle this. He squeezes Victor’s shoulder helplessly, because what else  _ can _ he do? Makkachin has stopped a couple feet away, and is regarding them with black, cautious eyes. “Can you move it?”

Victor tries: he bends his right knee and flinches, then bends it farther and lays a shaky hand on it. He exhales a breath he’s very obviously been holding. “I can move it.”

“Okay, umm... do you have your phone? I’ll call Mari to pick us up.”

Victor nods and fishes his phone from his pant pocket. It’s fancy and waterproof, which Yuuri is grateful for because otherwise Victor would have left it at home.

Mari picks up after the first ring. “Victor?”

“It’s me, Mari. Can you come get us? Victor hurt his leg.”

“Yuuri?” she says. “Where are you?”

“At the beach. Um...” He looks around, searches for a landmark. “Almost by the port, I think. There’s a large white log by the road.”

“Okay. Sit tight.”

It doesn’t take long for Mari to arrive. Makkachin is the first to notice, and she would have run to greet her if it wasn’t for the leash Victor put on her, just in case. Instead she just huffs and lies back down, just out of Victor’s reach.

“So what happened?” asks Mari. She’s still wearing Yu-Topia’s uniform; for all her relaxed appearance she must have come here in a hurry.

Yuuri recounts, with a glance at the leash, how Makkachin ran off. Victor’s been uncharacteristically quiet, glancing between Yuuri and his poodle every so often. It’s not hard to guess why: it was Yuuri’s first thought, and it’s been lingering on his mind ever since:  _ what about skating? _

 

* * *

 

_ _

 

_ Wednesday _

 

“Yuuri, lift me!”

Yuuri glances at Victor, who’s leaning on the rink barrier, nodding with a warm smile plastered on his face before he resumes his conversation with Yuuko. He gestures wildly, like he’s trying to hug an invisible elephant, and Yuuko giggles at something he says that Yuuri can’t quite make out. There’s a pause, then, and Victor shifts his weight minutely, like he’s using the barrier as a makeshift crutch.  _ He shouldn’t be standing at all, _ Yuuri thinks. But then, when does Victor ever do the things he’s supposed to?

“Yuuri!” Something tugs at his shirt with an impatient insistence. He looks down—Axel’s standing there with her small hand buried in Yuuri’s clothes, eyebrows pulled taut and mouth a thin line; very much an intimidating look. Yuuri suppresses a chuckle.

“All right.” He lifts Axel and spins her around twice, three times. Cheerful shrieks erupt from her, which—which catch the attention of her sisters, who were practicing two-footed spins on the other side of the rink up until now. They come dashing, a pack of eager little girls who each insist it is their turn, _their_ _turn_ , until Yuuri picks them up one after another like mismatched pair skaters. Good thing he’s technically already done with practice for the day; he wouldn’t have stuck around normally, if it wasn’t for the exhibit Victor has planned one and a half weeks from now. The triplets demanded to perform and, well, it’s a nice idea since Yuuri doesn’t have any team mates to spice up that Saturday training session that Victor _insisted_ be a public spectacle. “It’s good to simulate a competition environment sometimes,” he’d said.

It’s a relief when Victor finally waves him over; precious as the triplets may be, they’re still a handful. There’s a pleasant ache in his legs as he skates over, a warm, deep sort of pull that has settled in his muscles.

“I think the exhibit will turn out nice,” Victor says, eyes fixed on the girls who have resumed—quite noisily—their practice of the routine they’ll be presenting: a short little dance to the Totoro theme song.

Yuuri nods, albeit hesitantly; Victor had definitely been looking forward to performing again, pair skate or not. Now he’ll watch from the sidelines as Yuuri skates to his old program.

“His patella snapped out of place,” the doctor had said, and handed Yuuri the x-ray image like it was supposed to mean something to him. Victor had been sat, more or less ignored, on the examining bed with one leg bent and the other one, the injured one, carefully stretched out, with heating pads on both sides. His knee had looked fine; apparently the kneecap had jumped right back into place. Lucky.

“How long will this take to heal?” Yuuri had asked, the x-ray in his hand about as useful as a scroll full of cyphers. A couple weeks, the doctor had replied; no, physical therapy would not be needed. Yes, a cast was advised. Yes, physical activity was absolutely forbidden. Victor had sat through the whole ordeal with a straight face and (barely concealed) confusion; medical vocabulary hadn’t really come up in his few and far in between attempts at conversing in Japanese yet.

Yuuri sighs when they’re back in the changing room, and sits on one of the benches. The plastic is old and sinks a little under his weight; it’s been like this ever since he was young, along with the green-and-gray tiles that are broken more often than not, the vending machines that, for whatever inexplicable reason, sell cat food along with snacks and sports drinks, or that one locker at the top right that’s been rented but unused ever since he can remember. It doesn’t matter, Yuuri loves this place with all its faults and peculiarities. He couldn’t have asked for a better home rink.

Victor mumbles something into the muffled not-quite silence of the room.

Yuuri turns, startled. Victor’s leaning against one of the vending machines, candidly, like he’s posing for a photoshoot. It looks almost natural enough for Yuuri to buy it; he would have, a few months ago. The splint they decided on, after Victor’s (vehement) dismissal of the cast, is almost invisible against the dark of his pants. He’d argued that it would be a lot more convenient for the onsen (warmth is  _ good _ for an injured knee, isn’t it?), and besides, he’d been able to walk (limp) perfectly fine by the time they’d left the hospital.

“Did you say something?”

“Ah, no, it’s... it’s nothing.” He makes a dismissive gesture. “I thought I heard... it’s nothing.”

Yuuri shrugs and slips the skate off his foot, but then he thinks better of it and looks up at Victor again. “You don’t have to pretend this isn’t getting to you, you know,” he says. He can feel his own mouth twist in—well, worry, but also annoyance. Because Victor still sometimes hides behind a mask, and because this is getting to Yuuri too.

Victor makes his way over to Yuuri slowly, carefully, and sits on the bench opposite to him. “I’m sorry,” he says. “This  _ is _ getting to me. Do you need help with that?” He points at Yuuri’s left foot, which is still snugly locked in his skate. There’s a quiet smile playing at his lips, like he’s laughing at a private joke.

“Um...”

But Victor bends down and takes Yuuri’s foot in his lap, gently like he’s handling a newborn pup, and begins unlacing the shoe. His fingers work almost... sensually slow, as if he was working open a corset, and not something as mundane as Yuuri’s left skate. Undeniably, there’s heat rushing into his cheeks and his nails dig into the underside of the bench.

“Yuu—”

Whatever he was going to say is interrupted by the scratching of metal against the linoleum floor, and a moment later the triplets come bursting into the room, followed by a slightly overworked looking Yuuko. Victor’s hand stills on Yuuri’s skate and then he slides it right off, worn leather caressing the aches and bruises under Yuuri’s skin, and plants his foot onto the floor.

“I think I’ll send Takeshi to cover tomorrow’s shift.” Yuuko slumps onto the bench next to Yuuri. Lutz and Loop have settled on the floor, arguing about one thing or another while they pry their skates off with less care than Yuuri thought their mother would allow. Axel is more prudent: she’s the only one who’s put on skate guards.

“You deserve a break, Yuuko,” Victor says, and if there was vulnerability before it’s certainly gone now. Yuuko smiles a tired smile and leans back on her hands. She’s been at the rink since morning.

“Yes, but...” She gestures at her daughters. “They’re excited, so I think it’s worth the extra work. Thank you, Victor.”

Victor just hums in response, and they sit in silence until the triplets have put on their shoes and stowed away their skates in one of the lockers, and then Yuuko’s out the door with a mumbled apology and three yet to be worn out girls in tow. It’s fine like that; Yuuri has a spare set of keys to the rink.

He raises his head to find Victor looking at him from underneath impossibly pale lashes, considering him with an unreadable expression and a smile that could mean anything. There they are: alone again, almost intimately private in this public rink. Yuuri slips on his shoes, hastily, clumsily, stuffs his skates into his bag and stands, arm outstretched for Victor to pull himself up on. He does, after a moment, and slings an arm around Yuuri.

“I think my knee hurts,” he coos. “You’ll help me, won’t you, Yuuri?” That last word, his name, is almost melodically drawn out.

“Ah... okay.” Yuuri doesn’t believe for a second that Victor’s knee hurts more than usual. If it did, the last thing Victor would do is admit it. As it is, he’s probably just being lazy, but if it puts less strain on the knee, well. Yuuri grabs his bag and, dragging his coach along, stores it away in his locker.

_ He’s actually kind of adorable, _ he thinks and then immediately shakes his head at the thought, flustered. Victor Nikiforov, living legend and playboy extraordinaire.  _ Adorable _ . “Maybe not,” he mutters to himself.

“What’s that?” Victor asks.

Yuuri just shakes his head again, trying (in vain, probably) to conceal his embarrassment, and focuses on locking down for the night. The old neon tubes in the changing room flicker off with an audible click, and the lights pooling from the vending machines are the only one that remain.

When they step outside the air is pleasantly cool; the ever-present smell of ocean has mixed with the earthy dampness that comes after the rain. The asphalt is still wet beneath them, shimmering somewhat in the waning light as if someone had sprinkled little shards of glass all over it. A gust of wind has Yuuri lift his arm to shield his eyes. Victor, instead of lifting his arm, nestles his head into the crook of Yuuri’s neck. There’s a delightful warm tingle as Victor’s breath brushes over the skin there.

“You’ll have to let go for a bit,” Yuuri says, voice embarrassingly shaky as they approach his bike. Victor removes his arm from around Yuuri’s shoulder, a silent “Okay!” on his lips, and before long he’s sitting behind Yuuri on the bike, shifting until he is more or less comfortable on the no doubt hard cargo rack. It was Mari’s idea to have Yuuri drive them both to Ice Castle like this; there might have been easier, more convenient ways to get them there, but with Victor’s chest pressed so snugly against him and his arms slung around Yuuri’s midsection like a lifeline, he sure isn’t complaining. And Victor isn’t, either.

Finding the right pace, the right way to take off is awkward at first, the pace shaky and uneven until Yuuri finds enough momentum to get them going without tipping over. This—this is lovely. The wind in his hair, still ruffled and sweaty from practice; the steady hissing of tires against the wet ground as they go down a slope and then across the bridge, where the town opens up briefly to expose the wideness of the sea; Victor, who hasn’t said a word since leaving the rink, whose fingers are curled into the fabric of Yuuri’s shirt, wandering occasionally like he’s petting Makkachin.

There’s a strange mood to all of this. Quiet and removed, somehow, despite the bustle going on around them: businessmen and school kids hurrying home, young and old couples ambling along with no apparent destination, workers setting up stands and stages. Even the insects, buzzing around in swarms like clouds of busy dust—it’s like he’s seeing them all through a glass window, an observer rather than a participant. And the heat of Victor’s body against his, grounding him in reality with a welcoming pull. For a moment, all sounds cease save for a rustling that can’t  _ quite _ be the ocean. And then, high and clear, something chimes.  _ Bells _ , Yuuri thinks.

The world trickles back in like water through an old dam. The moment passes without bravado; there is no jerking out of it, no sudden realization. Everything’s calm, everything’s busy and real around him and he smiles to himself privately. He doesn’t say a word as he moves through the town on his bike, with Victor on his bag rack like a schoolboy and his crush.  _ It’s not very far off, _ he thinks as Victor nuzzles closer. He wonders sometimes, stupidly, hopefully, who of them the schoolboy is.

 

* * *

 

 

_ Friday _

 

“Are you sure?” Yuuri stops the bike and half turns in his seat. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

And that means, test. Just like every Saturday. Celestino had preferred to have those simulations on Fridays during afternoon practice, with an easy session the day after. Victor wanted to do them on Saturdays instead, as a sort of final climax to the week; sometimes Yuuri runs through his short program, sometimes his free skate, and sometimes both. And then there’s the tests that have his jaw drop all the way to Detroit, or the times Victor turns everything into a public spectacle because “simulating a competition audience is important, Yuuri.”

And now that same Victor is asking him to go to the bon festival with him, instead of home and getting a good night’s rest. Sometimes his inclinations are more  _ athlete _ than  _ coach: _ Phichit would drag Yuuri to all sorts of questionable events, and Celestino would scold them both the day after when they arrived at practice tired out and, on more than one occasion, hungover.

“As your coach, I say it’s okay!” Victor chirps. He’s been playing that card a lot, lately. “You’ll be in bed by ten, and I won’t let you eat the candied fruits.”

Yuuri cocks his head, pretends to consider it. “Okay,” he says after a while, like he hadn’t decided ages ago that, yes, going to a festival with Victor is definitely damn near the top of his to-do list. Schoolboy and his crush indeed.

He drives them the short distance to the city center, where stands line the streets and people line the stands, and leaves his bike beneath a tree in an alley. This is the mere outskirts, the first proof that something’s going on; the streets are bursting with people, so they’ll have to continue on foot. Yuuri shoots Victor a glance as they leave the bike behind, hopefully unnoticed.

They walk slowly, taking in the atmosphere: the steady bustle of people, laughter, the buzz of conversation. Here, a girl in a kimono is leaving a stand with a stick of dango in each hand, and there a group of preschoolers is gathered around a pool trying to catch goldfish.

“Yuuri!” Victor pulls him through the crowd towards a stand with masks. There’s oni and fox and noh masks, but mostly they’re just merchandise from one anime or another. A school boy is turning one in his hands, a white one with black circles, while his friends look over his shoulder in awe.

Victor takes one of the masks and holds it in front of his face. “How do I look?”

“You look...” Yuuri curls his lips. “You look like Makkachin.” Because  _ of course _ that’s why Victor chose this one: it’s brown with canine ears, though it’s not a poodle and, objectively speaking, doesn’t look like Makkachin at all. But it’s the thought that counts.

“Right?” Victor’s already pressing a thousand yen bill into the vendor’s hands, grinning every bit as widely as the schoolboys next to him.

And then Victor’s pulling him away again, from stall to stall like they’re on a treasure hunt. Victor can be... excitable, he knows, but the mood is getting to Yuuri too: the up and down of drums and flutes that are resonating through the streets from somewhere ahead and then again, more hollow, from speakers all around; the sweet, heavy aroma of food and drink and the faint burning smell from the food stalls; the sheer  _ electricity _ in the air, carried by the laughter of children and the glow of paper lanterns that slowly, slowly begin to replace the sun. Even Victor’s mask, that’s hanging somewhat lopsided on the back of his head: it gives him a surreal appearance, like he’s a ghost who will fade away come morning. Yuuri grips his hand harder.

Eventually they arrive at the heart of the festival, a high stage with open space all around. There’s rows and rows of lanterns spanning  above them like the roof of a tent, wobbling to and fro with every beat of the drum. An older woman in a kimono—Yuuri thinks he’s seen her around—is singing into a microphone on stage, swaying from side to side.

Victor lets go of Yuuri’s hand and joins the dancers around the stage. He’s graceful, but still awkward in the sense that he isn’t following at all what the others are doing.

Yuuri giggles. “Victor!”

But Victor just turns on his axis and flashes him a heart shaped grin. He’s moving with the crowd, counterclockwise around the stage, away from Yuuri. “Join me, Yuuri!”

Yuuri weaves through the crowd till he’s caught up with Victor, but instead of falling in tune with the other dancers he starts mimicking Victor’s movements.

“What are you doing?” Victor looks around himself. “That’s not the dance.”

“No.” Yuuri raises his hand above his head like Victor, and does a pique turn. “It’s solidarity.”

They improvise like that for two rounds, but by the third, Victor’s starting to favor his left leg.

“Let’s sit,” Yuuri says and leads Victor away from the stage to a somewhat secluded area a little ways farther down, a copse of trees with a bench underneath. There’s a rack with a single, old fashioned bike chained to it, and a flower shop with dark windows and an illuminated  _ closed _ sign on the door. A lone street light flickers to life as they pass beneath it.

“Will there be fireworks?” Victor lets go of Yuuri as he sits, and leans back on his palms.

“Well, um...” Yuuri says. “No, not at bon.”

Victor chuckles, and mumbles something Yuuri can’t make out. “Won’t you sit with me?” he asks after a while and pats the polished stone of the bench. Yuuri does, probably closer to Victor than is appropriate, but farther away than he’d really like. Victor shoots him a side glance that’s almost lost behind the length of his hair.

“Maybe if you teach me the dance,” Victor says, “I won’t embarrass myself next year.”

_ Next year?  _ Yuuri turns and stares at Victor, who’s still looking at the faraway dance floor and the people moving across it beneath a canopy of lights. He’s swaying a bit, like he’s subconsciously still dancing in tune with the drums, and the fingers of his left hand are tapping against the bench.

“You mean—” Yuuri shakes his head. “You’re going to be in Japan next year?”

It’s a stupid thing to hope: their contract expires in December, and after that...  _ after that we’ll go our separate ways, won’t we? _

“I...” Victor inclines his head, so that his hair falls over his eye, a veil that hides his face. Then he turns to look at Yuuri, a smile like a paper cutout on his lips. “You’d welcome me, right? We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Of—of course!” Yuuri says. “I’d be happy if you visited us sometime.” He manages a smile of his own, or thinks he does.

In the distance, the dancers and the lanterns blur into a jumble of shadows and flames, and the sound of drums twists into something else, something clearer and higher, a steady jingling that fills the air on all sides. It’s warm, it’s summer, but the hairs on Yuuri’s neck stand on end, a shiver runs through him from the top of his head all the way down to his toes. He didn’t bring a jacket—what for?—so all he can do is sling his arms around himself. Victor’s still smiling, like he’s lost in thought, smiling at  _ Yuuri  _ specifically, the object of all his fascinations, Yuuri, and then Yuuri’s staring back at himself, wide-eyed and flushed, with those kissable kissable lips just like at the ban—

“Yuuri?”

Something clicks—it’s like a tree falling in reverse, a rubber band un-snapping—and Yuuri is back in his own body.

“Ye-yes?”

“You’ll teach me the dance, won’t you?”

“Of course.” He glances at the dance floor, almost apprehensive like he’ll find something different, but all he sees are stands and lanterns and people.  _ Weird things happen at bon, _ he thinks. But all around, there’s nothing out of the ordinary: not the flowers in the shop window, not the beat of the drums, not the pigeons looking for dropped food or the cat emerging from behind the bike rack. Yuuri clicks his tongue and extends his hands. The cat turns to look at him and approaches, cautious.

“I wanted to get one when I was younger.” Victor lets the cat sniff his hand. “But Makkachin doesn’t like them very much.”

Yuuri knows. Makkachin growls at every cat she sees, and sometimes at cats she  _ doesn’t _ see. That time at the beach must have been a cat, too.

“Neither did Vicchan,” Yuuri says. He remembers the phone call clearly. “He never needed a leash, but cats... he got hit by a car that day.” His voice has dropped to a whisper. It’s not that Victor doesn’t know about Vicchan, but...

“Oh, Yuuri.” Victor puts an arm around Yuuri and pulls him close into an awkward sideways hug. Even the cat, like it has somehow sensed the bubbling-up of Yuuri’s grief, jumps on the bench and lies down right beside him.

They stay like that, Victor, Yuuri, and the cat, until the sun is truly gone and the festival sounds are a faraway buzz that lull Yuuri into a peaceful trance.

 

* * *

 

_ _

 

_ Monday _

  
  


_ This is a mistake, _ Yuuri thinks as he downs the last of his sake and turns back to the karaoke machine. But this week’s regeneration week and he doesn’t have morning practice, and Victor had crooned, “As your coach, I say it’s okay!” like he always does, which brings them here, half sprawled across one of the tables in Yu-Topia’s common room. And it’s _ loud; _ the deep bass of the song mixes with the even deeper bass of the guests’ overworked vocal cords. Even Victor’s. Even  _ Yuuri’s, _ because fuck it, he knows no shame.

This karaoke night was half Mari’s idea, half a forgotten tradition that Yuuri vaguely remembers from his childhood. After bon Victor had been in a festive mood, and with all that had happened Yuuri had wanted to keep it that way. So he’d asked Mari, because Mari’s been a problem solver ever since he can remember. And indeed, she’d taken him to one of the storage rooms (that she was supposed to clean, incidentally) and shown him the ancient, dusty karaoke machine.

It’s pure luck that they happened to have some English CDs too, to go with the machine: there’s no way Victor can sing in Japanese (read: “Japanese”) and keep his dignity at the same time. (At least, that’s what he reasoned when he announced the karaoke night to the onsen guests: as it turns out, though, it wouldn’t have mattered because Victor doesn’t land a single note anyway, and Yuuri finds that he doesn’t care. Victor’s hot whatever he does, and Yuuri did  _ not  _ just think that.)

A round of applause erupts as Victor passes the mic to Minako. He’s laughing, and she’s laughing, and Yuuri’s laughing too, even though Victor just lost spectacularly against Mr. Mura. Though, to be fair, that man did a remarkable impression of Whitney Houston.

“Yuuri,” Minako says just as someone presses the second mic into his hands. He fumbles with it—where did he get the courage for the last three songs?—and goes looking for his sake, except it’s empty, so he takes a sip of Victor’s instead. Victor doesn’t seem to mind.

He doesn’t realize what he’s supposed to be singing until the first  _ Oh, baby, baby _ blasts from the speakers, but oh. This is Phichit’s and his song, this is something he’s danced to drunk more often than he can count because Phichit is a goddamn  _ enabler _ , even though he’s not even present, but it’s tradition and Yuuri can’t let this chance pass up. He should probably be embarrassed, especially in front of Victor and Minako and six onsen guests he only knows by name, but _ it is tradition _ .

So he stands and throws his head back and swings his hips just like Britney, and when he sings, _ The reason I breathe is you, boy, you got me blinded, _ he looks Victor directly in the eyes, open wide eyes above flushed cheeks. Victor’s expression is such an exquisite mix of surprise and disbelief that Yuuri bursts out laughing mid song.

“Come on, sing!” Someone pounds his fists on the table. Another fist joins, and then another, and Yuuri tears his gaze away from Victor and back to the lyrics passing by on the little screen, way way way too fast (where are his glasses?), but he  _ knows  _ the song—

His mother appears from the kitchen with a new bottle of sake and a wet cloth, and Yuuri sits so abruptly he slams his elbow against the table. Fuck, she shouldn’t witness him like this. He’s still got enough presence of mind to realize that, because she’s his  _ mother _ , and one does not dry hump the air in front of one’s mother. Or his ballet teacher and six other people he hardly knows, but especially his mother.

“Yuuri, are those bottles empty?” Hiroko points to two small brown beer bottles on the floor to Yuuri’s left, gloriously oblivious to her son’s antics. He hopes.

He picks one up and holds it against the light, then the other, then gives each a good shake just to be  _ sure _ . “They’re empty.” He passes them to her.

“Mrs. Katsuki!” One of the guests waves her over with vigor. He’s young, not even thirty, if Yuuri had to guess. “Mrs Katsuki,” he calls again, “come sing with us!”

“Oh dear.” She wipes the table clean with a single stroke and sets down the bottle of sake. “Is that a challenge, Mr. Kawai?”

Yuuri giggles, both at Mr. Kawai’s boldness and at the smirk on his mother’s face that’s perfectly disguised as a polite smile. He forgot: his mother is competitive and vicious when she wants to be, and Mr. Kawai doesn’t know what’s coming.

“Minako, can you change the CDs?” she asks (sweetly) and smiles (sweetly) when Minako does. Because Minako knows exactly what CD his mother wants: Yumi Matsutoya, her secret weapon.

Yuuri grins the entire time his mother grills Mr. Kawai. He grins because it’s fun to watch the others’ reactions, watch _ Victor’s  _ reaction to Hiroko’s unexpectedly lovely singing voice. The room has gone absolutely quiet, and even Mr. I-challenge-you Kawai has stopped to listen.

“Wow!” Victor claps when she finishes her song, and raises his sake in toast. Mr. Kawai and Mr. Mura and everyone else all applaud and laugh and clink their glasses, and Yuuri’s mother has the audacity to look embarrassed, like she  _ isn’t  _ enjoying all the attention. Yuuri snickers because oh, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

“My, have you enchanted the entire room, darling?” Yuuri’s father has emerged from upstairs. He’s leaning against the opposite wall with a fond shine in his eyes.

“Ah, Mr. Katsuki!” calls Mr. Mura and waves, still with his glass in his hand. “You should join us as well!”

“You should sing a duet!” Victor says.

Hiroko raises her hands to her cheeks. “Oh dear, that would certainly be romantic, wouldn’t it?” She holds out her mic and Toshiya takes it, turning it in his hands like he’s examining something precious.

“So, is this the good mic?” he asks.

“Darling!” Hiroko covers her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Don’t spill my secrets.”

Toshiya sits right next to his wife and slings an arm around her as he takes the other mic from Mr. Kawai and hands it to her. The duet they choose is a ballad, something Yuuri heard over and over when he was little because it has a special meaning to his parents, though he’s never asked why. Even in the common room among friends and onsen guests, their moment seems so private, and Yuuri finds himself almost looking away. Like he’s not supposed to watch.

“All right!” says Hiroko afterwards. “Yuuri, you’re okay by yourself? You know where to find the sake, just make sure to add it to their tabs. Maybe you and Vicchan can sing something as well?” With that she disappears through the door after her husband.

“S-sure, okay,” Yuuri says after her. He doesn’t want to know, oh God, _ he does not want to know. _

Minako snickers behind him. “I have the perfect song for you two.” She changes the CDs again (and oh God, what does she have planned?) and pushes the microphones into Yuuri and Victor’s hands.

“It’ll be fun,” Victor says. As if Yuuri needs any encouragement.

But then the music starts and all Yuuri can see is the evil little smirk Minako’s shooting him.  _ Time of my Life. _ It’s such an obvious jab at Yuuri’s earlier escapade that he almost drops the mic. “Oh God,” he says. Next to him, Victor’s gone red as a potato. Or tomato. Or whatever.

Yuuri can’t do this without courage, but his glass is empty and the top on the sake bottle looks way too difficult to open. So he shrugs, murmurs, “Sorry” and empties the rest of Victor’s glass. The warmth flowing down into his stomach is reassurance enough as the first lines fly by on the screen. Yuuri squints.

It’s easy to drown out the cheers; it’s something he’s had to learn, because when you’re out there on the ice there’s just you and the music. And it’s the same here: Yuuri wants to win. Screw Minako, screw his embarrassment. Screw Victor, who’s so bad at this Yuuri doesn’t even have to try. If anything, it gets him even more fired up, because this Victor—the one sitting half drunk on the floor, landing only about half the notes with the loveliest smile Yuuri has seen anyone wear—this Victor is real. And Yuuri wants to impress him.

The machine announces the scores just as the last few notes fade away. Yuuri beat Victor by—by a mile, probably, though he can’t really see the numbers anymore. And Victor’s looking back at him with pure adoration.  _ Mission accomplished, _ Yuuri thinks.

“It looks like you lose.” He pokes Victor’s forehead with his index finger, and Victor laughs.

“It looks like I did,” he agrees. He’s beaming, like someone stole the moon and poured its light all over him. His cheeks are such a delightful pink, his eyes a sparkly blue and his hair like silver silk. He’s so… so…

“You’re so gorgeous,” Yuuri blurts out. Oops.

Victor opens his mouth, closes it, opens it. “Thank you,” he settles on eventually. It’s as if he traded all his camera charm for Yuuri charm, but then again,  _ everything  _ Victor does is charming. Like the way his breath hitches sometimes, or the way his chest rises and sinks, or even that collarbone that’s generously sticking out from underneath his clothes.

Since when does Yuuri get this turned on by a collarbone?

_ Oh God _ . He recoils as far away from Victor as he can in his state. There’s a growing heat extending from the pit of his stomach to _ even lower _ , and if anybody  _ sees _ —

“I’m s-sorry,” he stutters and scrambles to his feet and out of the room. He almost doesn’t hear it when Victor calls after him.

 

* * *

 

_ _

 

_ Tuesday _

  
  


“And if I say please?”

“Please,” Yuuri repeats. “ _ Please _ go away, Victor.” His face is burning all over, burning with shame and embarrassment. What had he been thinking? The headache he can handle, but the memory of last night is burying itself into the pit of his stomach like a hot piece of coal. He’d thrown himself at Victor—at his coach, his  _ friend _ —like a horny teenage virgin. He had—if he hadn’t excused himself to the bathroom when he did, his thirst would have been very... visible.

“Yuuri.” Victor knocks again, more insistent. Yuuri doesn’t answer.  _ If you ignore him hard enough he’ll go away,  _ he thinks. And groans when another knock tears through his brain. “Yuuri, if you don’t—okay, I’m coming in.”

Yuuri barely has the time to scramble to his feet and yell out a “Wait, don’t!” before the door slides open.

“Victor—” Whatever he wanted to say after dies in his throat. Victor’s dressed in his Stammi Vicino costume, but it’s different: the jacket has a slightly bluer tinge, and the embellishments are silver now, not gold. And he’s wearing a black— _ revealingly _ low cut—dress shirt underneath instead of the white one from the previous season. There’s an equally sparkly bundle of navy and black cloth in his arm.

“Tada!” He spins around and grins. “The costumes came.”

“Victor,” Yuuri says again. “Where’s your splint?” It’s not what he wanted to say at all.

“Really?” Victor curls his lips. “That’s all you have to say? My knee is fine, Yuuri.”

“I,” Yuuri tries again. “I mean, yes. Of course, um. You’re...”  _ You’re so gorgeous,  _ he’d said. He turns away in shame.

“Is everything okay?” Victor leans against the door frame and frowns. “You don’t hate it, do you?”

“No! It’s perfect, Victor, but…” He swallows, looks everywhere but at his coach. “I am so, so sorry about last night.”

“Last night? What about last night?”

“Well, I…” Is Victor really going to have him say it? “I was drunk and you, you must have been so uncomfortable, and…” He briefly entertains the idea of throwing himself at Victor’s feet and begging for forgiveness. Instead he just says, “I will try to be more professional from now on.”

“Oh,” Victor just says. And again, “ _ Oh _ . Yuuri, I wasn’t uncomfortable. You were endearing. Can I come in?”

Yuuri lifts his gaze, unclenches his fingers from the hem of his shirt. He takes a step back, further into the room to give Victor space, and dares to lift his gaze. The smile glued to Victor’s lips is reassuring. Yuuri says, “You don’t have to patronize me.”

“I’m sorry.” Victor sits on the floor and leans back against Yuuri’s bed like it’s his own. He rests his chin on his good knee, pressing the other costume close to his chest, and then looks up at Yuuri, who’s still standing in his own room somewhat lost. “I meant it, though.”

Yuuri doesn’t really want to sit next to Victor though, because even if Victor does mean it, it’s still embarrassing as hell. Like all his feelings are plainly written on his face, and Victor’s just… being nice or something. Yuuri isn’t a charity case.

He settles on his chair, hugging his knees. His miniature desk fan, a present from Phichit, barely alleviates the heat, but it tickles his neck with with a pleasant breeze. Yuuri’s window is slid open on the other side of the room, but the silk curtains he’d pulled closed to nurse his headache don’t move a bit.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Victor asks.

“About what?”

“Something’s bothering you.”

There’s an edge to Victor’s voice, something he’s starting to recognize. Like… “You don’t have to say it like that,” Yuuri mutters. And before Victor can say anything: “How is your knee?”

Victor opens his mouth, then closes it again. Makkachin comes trotting in through the door and lies down next to him, yawning. Victor lays a hand on her back, head inclined so that all Yuuri can see is a cascade of hair and the thin line of his mouth. “It’s stiff,” he says. “But that’s not the point.”

Yuuri knows. The point is that Victor can’t skate, the point is that he can’t afford an injury if he wants to come back to competing after the Grand Prix Final. And even if he didn’t—he ditched his splint and he’s wearing his Stammi Vicino costume like he’s still, somehow, clinging to the hope he’ll be all better by Saturday.

“Victor…” Yuuri feels like an idiot now, stubbornly keeping his distance because of some stupid thing Victor  _ said  _ hadn’t bothered him. So he stands, and slides down the bed on Victor’s other side. Before he can think better of it he raises his hand palm up and Victor takes it, laces their fingers together, and—Yuuri’s breath hitches—rests his head on Yuuri’s shoulder.

The floor isn’t the most comfortable place they could be, not with its worn tatami and the unforgiving wood of Yuuri’s bed frame, or the midday heat that’s pushing at them from all sides. But there’s a melancholy sort of peace in all this and he could believe, for even a second, that everything’s all right. It’s like everything else is drowned out and this room is the only thing left in the universe.

Makkachin raises her head and sniffs, and a soft growl escapes her throat, but she settles back down after a moment and deems whatever upset her as unworthy. Noise—the hum of cars passing by, the clinking and murmuring from the kitchen, the buzz of muted voices—comes wafting on through the window like a record player come to life.

“I really wanted to skate with you on Saturday,” Victor says. “But I know you’ll do great by yourself, Yuuri.”

Yuuri squeezes his hand, but he says nothing. Somehow it’s always Victor who’s comforting him: he feels powerless. Like he’s too dependent, like he made it all about himself again instead of consoling Victor. All he can do is sit here and _ be there _ , and he hopes it’s enough.

 

* * *

 

 

_ Thursday _

  
  


It’s a mild day compared to the previous week. It rained some the night before, and the smell of damp earth is still lingering in the air as they climb the steps to the shrine. Makkachin has run ahead and is sniffing at a fern; the light filtering through the leaves above spots her fur with little patches of gold.

It was Victor’s idea to come here. And it’s not one of his usual fancies, Yuuri can tell: he was serious about it, and he’s serious about it still. It’s a long climb to the top, and Victor’s started to limp again, but he keeps refusing Yuuri’s help. His jaw is set and his eyes fixed on the top of the stairs every time Yuuri looks over at him.

“What’s got you so determined?” he asks when they’re nearly there.

Victor tilts his head to the side and grins. “Why, a dream, of course.” It’s same thing he said the last three times Yuuri asked.

“Fine,” he mutters, “then don’t tell me.”

They walk the rest of the way in silence. They haven’t seen a single soul on the way to the top, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone up here either, which Yuuri would find strange if it wasn’t nine in the morning on a Thursday. What does Victor want here, anyway?

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Yuuri asks. “Do you… want to make a wish?”

“Hmm.” Victor presses a finger against his lips. “I suppose I do.”

“Um. Okay.” Yuuri leads them to a the side of the building, where rows of  _ ema  _ are neatly stacked in a box. Makkachin follows a couple feet behind; her paws scratch on the ground almost louder than their footsteps. “You, um, write your wish on one and hang it over there.” He points to the wall on his right: dozens of scribbled on  _ ema  _ are hanging from tiny hooks.

“Does it have to be in Japanese?” Victor takes one of the  _ ema  _ from the box and turns it in his hand. It’s probably supposed to be a fox, but to Yuuri it looks more like a cat with its eyes closed. Interesting choice of design, he thinks.

“No.” He hands Victor a pen from the box. “You can write in English or Russian or Klingon.”

Victor chuckles. “Okay.” He scrawls something in Cyrillic on the  _ ema  _ and hangs it on the wall among all the other wishes.

“Okay,” Yuuri says afterwards. “Do you want to go home now?”

Victor nods. “Makkachin!” he calls.

Makkachin is gone.

Victor calls again, and Yuuri runs around the shrine once, but she isn’t there. She should have come when Victor called. She always does, but now there’s no barking, no panting, not even the sound of her paws against the ground or the rustle of her hunting for birds in the underbrush. In fact—it’s ghost quiet. There should at least be staff here, anyone, but Yuuri and Victor remain alone.

“Did you find her?” Victor asks when Yuuri emerges from behind the shrine.

Yuuri shakes his head and turns to look around himself again. There’s something slow about everything: the leaves are moving, but it’s more of an idle wafting around. And Yuuri feels no wind.

Victor buries his face in his hands. He must be thinking of that time Makkachin ran away at the beach, but there’s no cars here. Nothing that could harm a dog, surely?

“Victor.” Yuuri lays a hand on his arm. “She’s fine. She probably found a place to sleep or something.”

“No, they,” Victor says, “they tricked me.”

“What? Who?”

“The cats.” He shakes his head. “In my dream.”

_ What? _ “Vic—”

The sound of bells chimes through the air, hundreds of them, pushing from all sides like it’s a physical thing. And it grows. Grows, grows, grows in a crescendo until everything is drowned out, until there’s nothing but the insistent, pressing ringing that drills right into Yuuri’s brain, and then—

Silence.

He cracks his eyes open—when had he closed them? Everything is the same, yet different. There’s the shrine, white walls and red wood, and the trees, and the sky, and the cobblestone grounds, but. It’s washed out, like he’s in a painting, and wherever he looks, there’s always  _ something  _ at the edge of his vision. Something black and white and  _ moving _ .

“You see it too?”

Yuuri nods and presses his eyes shut. It’s not the thing that’s moving, it’s him. It’s everything. He’s tipping over—

A hand steadies him, and the ground ceases to sway. When he opens his eyes it’s to see Victor’s worried expression.

“Are you okay, Yuuri?”

“Yeah, just. Nauseous.” He pinches his nose. “Where’s—What about Makkachin?”

“Makkachin? Yuuri, you’re holding her leash.”

He looks down: indeed, he’s holding Makkachin’s leash, clinging to it in fact. Makkachin herself is standing a few feet away, as far as the leash allows and pulling on it: there’s two cats, one black and one white, sleeping beneath the wall of  _ ema _ .

“What, um, what did you wish for?”

Victor beams. “For us to have fun on Saturday, of course.”

_ Us.  _ Something's rearranging itself in Yuuri’s memories. Did Victor not injure himself? But that’s ridiculous, they just jogged up to the shrine together. But there it is, the image of Victor falling at the beach because Makkachin was chasing after… Or all the times he drove them to the rink by bike because Victor wasn’t supposed to walk. But that makes no sense: it was Victor who suggested the bike thing to give Yuuri a break from running to and from Ice Castle every day during regeneration week. He shakes his head to throw off the memories, and they fall from his mind one after another like sand through a sieve. 

“Let’s go home,” he says.

 

* * *

 

 

_ Saturday _

  
  


Yuuri applauds as the triplets finish their skate and bow to the audience with flushed cheeks and wide grins. Victor kept it small, just as he’d promised. It’s just them and Yuuko and Nishigori and Minako. Some of the onsen guests because they get along well with Victor. Mari’s in Fukuoka, but she hugged Yuuri and wished him good luck yesterday.

Victor had only printed four posters in the end. One for each triplet, which he’d signed (and made Yuuri sign too), and one for himself. “To remember this day,” he’d said. The poster is now hanging on the wall above his sofa.

“Are you ready, Yuuri?” Victor gives his hand a squeeze and pats him on the shoulder. “I’ll meet you on the ice.”

**Author's Note:**

> If demon Yuuri is "canon", can ghost cats be canon too? lmao


End file.
